The Secret Sister (14 page)

He rammed his hands into his pockets as he turned. “So why move here, on this side of Fairham, to live in a hurricane-damaged bungalow? Why not return to Coldiron House, where you'd have your mother and her servants to look after you?”

“Whatever preconceived ideas you may have about what it means to be a Coldiron-Lazarow, growing up in that house wasn't as easy as it appeared, okay? We had what we needed in material terms, yes. There was always plenty of money. But there were...other problems. Serious problems. And not the kind that disappeared just because Keith and I have grown up.”

This seemed to take him off guard. “You're not talking about abuse...”

That was an ugly word. One she generally reserved for physical attacks, and only Keith could accuse their mother of that. “I'd rather not go into detail. Surely you know my mother well enough to tell that she's...a difficult personality. She... Never mind. Forget it.” She was talking too much. “I don't want to make excuses. I just want you to know that I wasn't in the best frame of mind when you kissed me, and I acted as if...as if I couldn't wait to get your clothes off.”

He sighed, and when he spoke again it sounded as though he was talking to himself. “You weren't responding to me, then. You were missing your husband and working off steam.”

He'd had a lot more to do with her eagerness to feel him against her than she'd made it sound. Even Jack had never turned her on to that degree, not in quite some time. He'd been too lazy in the bedroom to try, especially after their first few years of marriage. Until he'd left her for someone else, she'd decided that was normal. Married couples often fell into a routine where work and other responsibilities took precedence. Then, when he'd gotten involved with someone else, she'd decided it must've been
her
fault their love life had grown so...stale. She hadn't been alluring or sexually desirable enough to maintain his interest.

But she wasn't about to go into all of
that
when simply agreeing with Rafe gave her the out she'd been searching for. “Since we barely know each other, I guess so.”

“Got it. I appreciate the clarification.”

“Of course.” She held the door with one hand while leaning outside. “It was probably just a...a welcome release for you, too, right?”

He shrugged. “Sure. Whatever.”

That didn't tell her much. In an effort to waylay him for another moment or so, she called after him. “Rafe?”

He turned to face her.

“I hope, despite everything, we can still be friends.”

“I'm always up for a new friend,” he said, but it was a throwaway statement, a polite way to wrap up this visit.

“I mean it,” she insisted.

Her phone, which she'd left on the coffee table, pinged with another text message.

He nodded toward it. “I'll let you get back to your ex,” he said, and headed down the steps.

As Maisey watched him go, she told herself she felt better. They'd come to an understanding. He wouldn't expect anything from her in the future; she was safe. That had to make it easier when she bumped into him here and there—and when she saw him at dinner this coming Sunday.

But she didn't hurry back inside to respond to Jack. She remained where she was, feeling an unexpected impulse to go after Rafe. Only her curiosity about the box he'd brought over kept her from chasing after him.

Drawing a deep breath, she told herself she'd done the right thing—
of course
she'd done the right thing—and returned to her couch to go through those pictures.

14

T
he lid was dented and hard to get off. Maisey almost wished she'd asked Rafe to remove it before he left. She broke a fingernail before she managed to pry the two pieces apart. Then she found exactly what Rafe had said she'd find—photographs. But these photographs weren't of her. At least, she didn't think so. The subject, a young girl, had the same color eyes and hair, since Maisey's hair had been much lighter when she was that age. Although the resemblance was uncanny, there were distinct differences, too. The girl's forehead was a bit higher, her mouth not quite as wide, her eyes closer together.

Puzzled, Maisey took out picture after picture and studied each one. Despite the similarity of the subject's features, she might've concluded that this girl had no connection to her. That some renter had left the photos in the bungalow years ago and, mysterious though it seemed, they'd wound up in one of the walls—as a subcontractor's joke or an act of spite by a stranger.

Except that her parents were in a few of them, as Rafe had said. That tied her family to the pictures. Seeing her father's likeness made Maisey yearn for him. Malcolm had been patient, kind. She'd been too afraid of her mother to go to Josephine for any type of nurturing. It was her father who'd provided the love she needed, and she missed his calm, unwavering support. He was the one who'd let her know, with his tacit disapproval, that her mother's and brother's behavior was not acceptable or even usual for most people. Without that, she might've thought
she
was the abnormal one.

She paused to stare at a photo in which the same girl—at about two years old—was puckering up to give Malcolm a kiss.

He was obviously close to this child. So
could
it be her? Maybe she wasn't remembering her own baby pictures clearly. Maisey couldn't see Malcolm being quite so loving with anyone else.

Unless it was a member of his extended family. That would account for the likeness—but didn't make much sense. Josephine had never cared for the Lazarows. As a result, they rarely associated with them. And there was another thing. Her father was the youngest of his family, and had married later in life, so his siblings wouldn't have had little kids by the time he met Josephine.

This girl had to be someone on the Coldiron side. Maisey had a lot of cousins, some she knew and some she didn't. Was it possible that her father had once been close to one of those children, someone he hadn't maintained a relationship with?

He could've been different back then, more carefree and demonstrative. There was no doubt that living with Josephine had changed him. Toward the end of his life, he'd seemed downright miserable. Even at seven or eight, Maisey had understood—instinctively, since it was never expressed—that her father was only enduring his marriage for the sake of his children. Secretly, she'd believed he was doing it more for her than Keith. Keith was almost as temperamental as Josephine. Malcolm couldn't relate to him, which was also part of Keith's problems. Unlike her, he hadn't shared a special bond with their father, had never had that anchor to temper the emotional ups and downs he suffered.

Instantly feeling guilty for acknowledging her father's favoritism, Maisey told herself he'd stayed for both of them. He could've stayed for financial reasons, too. Although she hated to believe her father would let money trap him like that, after having been through a divorce herself, she understood how hard any kind of separation would've been. The Coldirons had the wealth and power to strip him of everything, including his children. And back then, when her grandfather was alive, they'd have been ruthless enough to do it.

Despite the oddness of that photo, it wasn't until she came across another picture, one including Keith, that her heart started to jackhammer in her chest. She hadn't completely discarded the possibility that this child might be her. It remained the most likely explanation. But in this particular photograph, her brother seemed to be about four, and the girl in question stood taller.

Since Maisey was two years younger, and he'd been big for his age, there'd never been a time when she was taller than Keith. She'd never even come close.

That eliminated any lingering doubts Maisey had. She
couldn't
be this child. It was impossible. She could only be the newborn who showed up in a few of the older pictures at the bottom of the stack.

So...who was this girl? And why were they grouped together, posing as if they were siblings?

This
couldn't
be an older sister. She and Keith didn't have a sister. It was always just the two of them.

Or had there once been three?

* * *

Rafe went straight to his room and tore the sheets from his bed. He didn't want to climb back under them, didn't want to lie there before falling asleep thinking he could smell Maisey Lazarow's scent. For whatever reason, being with her the other day had been more significant, more memorable, than it should've been.

But that didn't mean he
couldn't
forget her. No way would he
finally
lose his heart to someone who didn't want it. A knock sounded as he stuffed his sheets in the washer. Since it was nearly midnight, and he'd just left Maisey's a few minutes ago, he figured it had to be her. His mother could no longer drive. Generally, she didn't need to. She lived close enough to the grocery store and other businesses that, if he couldn't take her, she could walk from her small rental house or have her purchases delivered. If there'd been any problem with Laney, she would've called.

At least, he hoped this wasn't about Laney. But he supposed it was a possibility and couldn't help feeling uneasy—until he opened the door and found Maisey standing on his porch. Then he let his breath go.

“What can I do for you?” He regretted his slightly irritated tone when she flinched.

“Never mind. I'm sorry I bothered you.” She turned to leave but by then he'd noticed how pale she was, a detail he hadn't spotted immediately in the dim glow of his porch light.

Suddenly concerned that something terrible had happened, he hurried out and caught her by the arm. “What's wrong?”

“Nothing, I just... Forget it. It's late. We can talk about this tomorrow or...or some other time.”

She was upset. Deeply. “Maisey,” he said, “is it your ex? What happened?”

Surely she wouldn't come to
him
for help with another man. Unless... Had her ex made a physical threat? Frightened her so much she didn't dare remain at her house?

“No. It—it has nothing to do with Jack. I'm sure I'm overreacting, that it can't be what I'm thinking. I'll let you get to bed.”

She started down the steps but, once again, he stopped her. “Overreacting to
what
? You're not making any sense.”

“That box you brought over,” she said.

“What about it?”

“Where
exactly
did you find it?”

“Inside a wall I was tearing down in Unit 1, like I said.”

“Which wall? Why was it there?”

“I can show you where the wall was. But I'm afraid I can't answer your other question. I have no idea why it was there. I've found unexpected things inside walls before—a dead rodent, a wasp's nest, drugs, even some hidden money once. But never a collection of pictures.”

The wind had come up. She hadn't put on a sweatshirt or a jacket and hugged herself to ward off the cold. “Can we go down there together tomorrow, so...so you can show me?”

“We can go now if you want.” He could tell she was anxious about it; he was just having trouble understanding why.

“Are you sure? I hate that I'm keeping you up.”

“I can wait a few more minutes. Hang on, while I grab a flashlight.”

He pulled a sweatshirt from his drawer when he got the flashlight, and insisted she wear it. Then they walked down to the beach.

She followed as he climbed the porch steps to Unit 1 and stood behind him as he unlocked the door.

“Here we go,” he said when they reached the kitchen. “There was a wall right here, behind the stove.”

The sleeves of his sweatshirt were too long, but she didn't take the time to roll them up. “How could someone have gotten it in there?”

“Easy. They removed the stove and pushed the box through the hole where the vent had already compromised the Sheetrock.”

“But most stoves don't last more than a decade or two, do they? All the appliances would have to be updated regularly. So wouldn't someone see it when the stove was replaced?”

“Whoever it was probably did a rudimentary patch, which wouldn't have taken too much effort. The guy who was doing the replacement might've assumed someone screwed up when they installed the vent. It's not like you'd wonder if something was back there.”

“So it could've been anyone who had access to this unit in the past...thirty years.”

He was puzzled by her defeated tone. “What do you mean? It had to be your mother or father. Who else would've had access to those pictures
and
this bungalow?”

“My mother never came over here. She had no interest in the bungalows. They were my father's project.”

She said that as if they'd been more than his project—as if they'd also been his refuge. “Then it was your father.”

“Not necessarily. It could've been Keith. Or someone who worked for us. We had housekeepers—quite a few while I was growing up. Back then, they never stuck around for long.”

“Why not?”

She bit her lip and glanced over. She was tempted to confide in him; he could tell. But he could also tell when she decided against it, answering with a cryptic, “A lot of reasons.”

Although she didn't like to talk about her family, the subject aroused plenty of emotion. “Why would Keith hide your baby pictures?” he asked.

The way she stared off into space, her mind a million miles away, only made Rafe more curious. Thanks to Josephine Lazarow's father—Henry Coldiron—and the money and property he'd passed on, the Lazarows always seemed to have it all. Especially their spoiled daughter who'd acted, eighteen years ago, as if merely telling him who she was would get her anything she wanted.

If things
weren't
as he'd assumed, what had her childhood really been like? She'd acted hesitant when he'd mentioned abuse. He hoped nothing like that had ever happened. If it had, he doubted he'd ever find out. She was too private; she hadn't even answered his question about why Keith would hide the photographs.

“How long ago do you think they were put there?” she asked instead.

He studied her carefully. Something wasn't right, but Rafe couldn't put his finger on it. Sure, it was strange to have found a box of old photographs in a wall, but at least he'd recovered them. They hadn't been lost forever. She should feel relief or gratitude that he'd saved them.

Instead, she was spooked, agitated, uneasy.

Was there something in those pictures he'd overlooked? He'd only glanced through enough of them to determine who they belonged to. He'd been too busy to do any more.

“Hard to say,” he said. “From what I can tell, there've been no major renovations since the bungalows were built, which means it could've happened any time since the early eighties.”

“I see. Of course.” Her smile looked forced. “Thank you. I—I appreciate you bringing me down here. I owe you one.”

“You don't owe me anything,” he said. Even if she did, he didn't plan on collecting. Now that he knew she was still in love with her ex, he was going to keep his distance. He didn't need to get involved in a romance triangle—or be the man who warmed her bed while she repaired her marriage to someone else.

She went out ahead of him and he locked up. He expected to find her waiting at the bottom of the steps so they could walk back together. He had the flashlight, which made the going easier. But she wasn't there when he descended. She wasn't farther ahead of him, either.

He assumed she'd hurried off—had already rounded the corner—until he cast the beam toward the beach and happened to catch sight of her sitting on the sand, facing the ocean.

Swallowing a curse, he walked over to her. “Maisey? It's getting late. Aren't you going back with me?”

She didn't turn around as he approached. She hugged her legs to her chest and rested her chin on her knees. “No. I think I'll sit here for a while. You go ahead.”

But he couldn't leave her. Not if she was thinking about getting in the water, like she had the other night. “You're not planning on going for a swim, are you?”

“Possibly,” she replied with a shrug that said it was none of his business.

“I'd rather you didn't.”

She finally looked up at him. “Why?”

“It isn't safe,” he explained. “The currents can get tricky at this time of year.”

“Thanks for your concern. I don't mean to be rude, but I grew up on this island—using
this
beach.” She went back to staring at the frothy waves. “I know Fairham at least as well as you do.”

Placing his hands on his hips, he followed her gaze and saw the moon sitting there, almost on top of the water. It was a beautiful sight. Maybe she was just enjoying the view...

Part of him thought he should shut up and back off. He had no say in what she did.

But the other part... “I don't doubt that,” he said. “Problem is, you might not know the limits of your own strength. It's possible that the currents have grown stronger in the past decade. I've felt them. They've tested
my
strength. So I'd rather not worry about you putting yourself in danger. You should avoid swimming until next spring.”

“Worry?” she echoed as if she couldn't believe he'd chosen that word. “You don't have to worry about me.”